I cringed when I heard other men speak of their painful childhoods, especially when they talked about how they hated what was done to them. I hated those things too. But it took me a long time to admit they were also telling my story.
Even at six years of age, something inside told me the abuse was wrong; another part of me admitted that it felt good. For a few minutes, it seemed that another person loved me. I was worthwhile and acceptable.
But afterward. After my perpetrator was finished with me—that's when reality struggled to the surface. I felt confused and condemned. That man did something terrible to me. As an adult, I told myself that I should have hated it, struck out at him, yelled, or pushed him away. Instead, I had gone back the next time he offered a snack to come into his room.
What's wrong with me? I didn't ask myself that question when I was six or even when I was ten. And yet the question was always there. If it had been such a terrible experience, why did I enjoy it?
Now I know. I needed the emotional connection—even though it was false and temporary, I needed to feel loved. I still needed those things after he pushed me aside.
What's wrong with me is that I was a normal human being. The wrong person deceived me and made me believe he was offering affection and compassion—that he cared about me. He cared about me as a means to satisfy his lustful needs.
Nothing was wrong with me;
Something wrong happened to me.
(This post was adapted from Not Quite Healed, written by Cecil Murphey and Gary Roe.)
1 comment:
I have a wife and two teenage children, and I am not totally healed and realize now that I will never be. I heard of you for the first time when I listened to Janet Parshall's radio program. Not yet healed is me, and it felt great knowing that I was not alone. Thank you for being so public about your abuse. Only a few people know of the sexual abuse that I suffered as a child: a preacher's teenage son at a fish fry at their house (I was only 6 or 7). In the church's bathroom where I was payed a quarter to perform oral sex on a man, and abused by my uncle for years in the barn and woods or wherever he could find. I wrote a poem about it. I thought that I would share it here.
"I Will Destroy This Place"
The frantic hog and the Apey Man,
“Shoot him, shoot him,—shoot him dead, and shut the shed!”
The rusty hoe against the wall, and the silent scythe above my head.
He swipes his mouth and dribbles juice.
I feel it running down his shin just as the light filters in.
Yes, tomorrow I will bathe again.
and he will come and come again.
The bridled stallion and the Apey Man,
“Hold him, hold him,—hold him dead, and shut the shed!”
The weedy bail scattered in the stall, and the used whip above my head.
He swipes his mouth and dribbles juice.
I feel it running down his shin just as the light filters in.
Yes, tomorrow I will bathe again.
and he will come and come again.
The mangy dog and the Apey Man,
“Grab it, grab it,—grab it dead, and shut the shed!”
The dirty sock lies across the doll, and the tattered rope above my head.
He swipes his mouth and dribbles juice.
I feel it running down his shin just as the light filters in.
Yes, tomorrow I will bathe again.
and he will come and come again.
The curious child and the Apey Man,
“Go away, go away,— shut me dead, and shut the shed!”
The borrowed book shoved beneath the ball, and the shaky ladder above my head.
He swipes his mouth and dribbles juice.
I feel it running down his shin, just as the light filters in.
yes, tomorrow I will bathe again.
and he will come and come again.
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